


Watch For the Devil

by jesuisherve



Category: House of 1000 Corpses (Movies), Rob Zombie - Works, The Devil's Rejects, True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Otis is a doom prophet, Rust is a Witness, doom prophet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisherve/pseuds/jesuisherve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True Detectives/The Devil's Rejects crossover. A version of the events in True Detective, except Rust is influenced by and drawn to the Ruggsville County case from 1978.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch For the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LightDescending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDescending/gifts).



_I don’t sleep. I dream._

Marty told you to stop saying weird shit, and you see his scowl out of the corner of your eye, but you ignore him. You’re speaking the truth. Doesn’t matter if Marty can’t hear it. You don’t sleep. Or, if you were going to debate it, you slip into states of sleep but your dreams are so vivid that you might as well be awake.

Lately your dreams have been of black spaces, dark coloured birds taking wing, and blue eyes. When you wake up, you always have a nagging memory of reading _The Great Gatsby_ in school, except the intended purpose of the book is irrelevant. What sticks is that you can’t get the idea of the omnipresent eyes of T.J. Eckleburg out of your head. After these dreams, you go about your days with the suspicion that if you had slept only a few minutes longer, someone would have spoken to you.

The blue eyes have a voice.

You haven’t heard it yet.

\--

The girl in the field by the tree. With the crown. And the odd marking on her back.

You’re convinced this is the work of a serial killer. Something this precise cannot be a first time killing. You look around as Marty talks to the cops on the first response team who found the body. You think you’ve seen something like this before. Not in your own experience, but in an old case file you had read for research.

The amount of books about criminology, killers, and psychology you’ve gone over is substantial. You’re meticulous in your methods, but even you can lose track of your sources. With the case files thrown into the mix, you know that you will have to look through your notes back at your place to confirm your hunch.

When you finally get a chance to make it home, you immediately dig out a pile of notes from a few years back. There. On the side tab of a file folder: _Ruggsville County, 1978._ You were fourteen years old when this event broke national news. It’s an odd feeling to know that Ruggsville had been in your life even before you knew that you would become a detective. You trail your index finger lightly over the familiar handwriting. This case had caught your eye because of its notoriety. It was so horrific. The news coverage in 1978 had kept people glued to their televisions and anxious to get the morning’s paper. Ruggsville County meant something to every cop in the South, but you took it upon yourself to do extra research.

You flip open the folder and start reading. The first sheaf of papers, held together by an oversized paper clip, outlines the known victims and the details of their deaths. Autopsy reports. You flip past the crime scene photos, past the list of officers and detectives involved in the case. You go directly to the profiles of the killers.

_Otis B. Driftwood. Vera Ellen Teasedale. Rufus Teasedale. Johnny Lee Johns. Gloria Teasedale._

Under each name is a list of aliases. Vera Ellen Teasedale, nicknamed “Baby”, took on the last name ‘Firefly’. As did her brother Rufus. Johnny Lee Johns, better known as Captain Spaulding, or Cutter. Gloria Teasedale, dubbed ‘Mother Firefly’.

These people are why you are so convinced that the suspect you and Marty are chasing is a serial killer. The similarities are striking. The Firefly house was full of ritualistic and symbolic paraphernalia when the police discovered it. Of particular interest to you is the bedroom which was estimated to belong to Otis Driftwood. The walls were scrawled with crude drawings and obscure phrases that echoed threats that lived in the mind that wrote them.

There were scrapbooks uncovered from the house back in 1978, and they are fascinating in a horrifying way. A few pages could almost pass as scrapbooking by a regular family, but the rest are sickening tableaus of murder and torture.

You come to what you can’t get out of your head, what’s been pricking the edges of all your thoughts.

The last few pages of the folder are grainy, Xeroxed copies of mug shots. Details lost to smudgy black ink. There’s a thumb print on the back of Baby Firefly’s mug shot from when you took the copy out of the machine and the ink had not dried.

Even with the loss of detail, you can appreciate how beautiful Baby Firefly was. Not your typical killer, let alone a ritualistic, serial one. Otis Driftwood, on the other hand. You flip to his mug shot. That’s the kind of man people imagine when they think about serial killers. Long hair, an unruly beard. Pale eyes.

The eyes.

You pause on Driftwood’s eyes.

\--

You’re stuck knee deep in hardened mud. Your legs are encased, like a plaster cast. After a few attempts to struggle free, you give up and start to look around. The horizon stretches for thousands of miles. There are a handful of crooked growing trees in the distance. The sky is a muted colour, but you can’t identify it. At the point where the sky and horizon meet, they crash together in a black line.

Stars begin to crop up on the sky as you sweep your eyes over it. They glitter like cheap, fake gemstones. As you look on, you know that the sky is not really a sky, but a domed expanse of rock. You don’t know why you know this, but you’re sure of it.

A dark bird flits across the sky.

“Rabbit!” A voice barks.

You look left and right, twisting your torso, trying to locate the source. You turn to face forward again and the landscape has changed. You don’t remember it changing. It’s a field and you are no longer trapped in mud. You’re in Texas. At least, some version of it.

“You’re looking in the wrong place, rabbit. Godfuckingdamnit you’re not better than the rest. You think you’re so fucking smart, chasing some goddamn fucking thing that might as well be a ghost. You’re afraid.”

_Why are you calling me Rabbit_

“You’re stuck in a mind loop, like a fucking rodent in a trap. Huntin’ humans ain’t nothin but nothin. They all run like scared little rabbits. He knows that. And you’ll run, too. You’re a fucking rabbit as much as anyone.”

The eyes finally have a voice. You’ve never been so sure of something.

The alarm clock blaring jerks you awake. You realize that you’re sweating.

\--

Your storage unit looks like the inside of a madman’s brain. You are aware of that, but that disinterests you. Above the desk you spend hours hunched over, you have Otis B. Driftwood’s mug shot tacked up. His pale eyes feel like they’re burning into your head whenever you sit there. The feeling of being watched is at its absolute peak when you watch the tape recording of the ritualized murder for the first time.

The Firefly family has nothing to do with this case. You know that. But you can’t shake the feeling that Driftwood’s shadow is cast over everything you touch.

You take the mug shot down the day the police call you in for an interview. You just have a feeling that it’s for the best.

\--

_"Why", you ask? "Why" is not the question. How? Now, that is a question worth examining. How could I, being born of such, uh... conventional stock, arrive a leader of the rebellion? An escapist from a conformist world, destined to find happiness only in that which cannot be explained? I brought you here for a reason, but unfortunately you and your sentimental minds are doing me no good! My brain is frozen. Locked! I have to break free from this culture of mechanical reproductions and the thick encrustations dying on the surface!_

Driftwood’s never spoken to you so much. You remember it so clearly when you wake up. It feels like you’ve only slept for a minute. You light a cigarette and smoke quietly until your hands stop shaking.

\--

“You’re a Watcher.”

_Huh_

Driftwood holds out his hands. There are holes in his palms. Time stills for a moment and you see thin strings of gore in the holes. Blood bubbles around the edges. He’s frowning at you like you’re stupid.

“Do you know who I am?”

Your heart beats faster. Louder. Like a rabbit in a trap. The holes invoke the image of Christ on the cross, but you don’t let that thought pass your lips. It tastes like ash because you know the truth.

_The Devil_

“You ain’t as dumb as I thought. I am the Devil, and I am here to do the Devil’s work.”

Your heart beat stops. You’re aware of your breathing.

“You’re a Watcher for this world,” Driftwood laughs. “You’re here to bear Witness. You see things the other fuckers can’t. Carcosa. That whole fucking deal. There are Devils in this world and the line between them and your average man is goddamn thin and you know it. Childress. He’s one. He sees.”

Driftwood is stained. His entire being is a sticky, maroon. There are bloody gouges seeping on his skin. You’ve read the autopsy reports. He was killed by cops in a shoot out. But the bloody smears on his chest, blooming through the material of Driftwood’s shirt, are tiny angular slashes. The coroner had identified these wounds as inflicted by a staple gun.

What you wouldn’t give to know the exact details of the last hours of his life. What happened? What was he thinking? What lead up to getting those puncture wounds in his hands? Or the staples in his chest.

_I’m a Watcher you’re the Devil so what_

“I can see the end of days,” Driftwood said. “It’s fast approaching and there ain’t nothin standing in its way. Keep an eye out, rabbit. Eyes on that fuckin horizon.”

\--

_Carcosa. Carcosa._

_Carcosa Carcosa Carcosa Carcosa CarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosa C_ _arcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosaCarcosa—_

Marty’s here. He’s behind you somewhere, back at the house. The _house_. You’re in the tunnels, in catacombs. Woven arches. Dry air, like how ancient Egyptian tombs must have had when they were first cracked open.

He calls you Little Priest.

The Yellow King.

Your thoughts are disjointed. You’re seeing flashes of colour and lines, like a solarised photograph. Darts of light dancing in the air, like they were tossed by a lazy bar patron at a dartboard. Is it daylight, or lights from your visions? You’ve always maintained that you can tell the difference between the visions and reality, but this time you’re having difficulties separating the mental from the physical. The weight of the gun in your hand is anchoring. The gun is keeping you attached to this Earth.

The knife in your gut burns. Fuck. Yeah, that hurts.

Your vision is sliding sideways.

_This place is pretty fuckin cute, ain’t it?_

“What?” You murmur. Are your lips moving?

_I was doin this shit in the sixties and seventies. Look at this amateur hour._

Your breathing feels thick. Whose voice is that? It isn’t Childress. It isn’t Marty. You struggle in the dirt, dragging yourself along the ground. The voice has fallen quiet and you feel disoriented. Where is Childress? Right, he’s over there. And Marty is back at the house. No, wait. He is here. He’s hurt. Right? Marty’s hurt.

Keepcrawling, you tell yourself. Crawl, you dumb motherfucker.

 You feel Marty’s hands. They have to be Marty’s hands. You grab at him. Relief. Yeah, that’s Marty.

Now the knife buried in your stomach.

 _Little Priest was a good name for you, huh? Sacrificial white. You musta worn that on purpose. Rabbit. Goddamn._ The voice laughs. _Blood shows up right pretty on white._

Marty’s cradling your head. He doesn’t seem to hear the voice.

You realize who is speaking, who the voice in the darkness belongs to. It’s Driftwood. “I kept an eye out. I Watched.” You don’t know if Marty can hear you either. He’s hurt pretty bad. Are you speaking on some level, a sub audible level that only you can Driftwood can pick up? You remind yourself that Driftwood is dead and has been since 1978.

“I Watched. I looked for the horizon. Is this the end of days?” It can’t be the end of days. The world is still spinning, so that must mean it’s only the end of your days.

Your heart pings with regret. It could be Marty’s end of days, too.

_There are worse devils than Childress. You ain’t some fucking hero just cuz you got that guy._

\--

The sterility of the hospital keeps you on edge. You see too much. Too many blank walls for visions to project on. You don’t want to Witness anymore. You’re a Watcher and you’re fucking sick of it. You’re exhausted.

Driftwood’s voice stays in the corners of your mind. It feels like when you know someone is behind you and wants to say something, but they stay silent. You see other visions, too. Spirals and void. Stars.

Marty helps you limp away from the hospital with nothing but the pack of cigarettes and the hospital gown.

It feels like escape. It feels like breathing.


End file.
